God Save the Queen
by YourMother'sSon
Summary: You don't write a song like 'God Save The Queen' because you hate the English race. You write a song like that because you love them, and you're fed up of seeing them mistreated." Johnny Rotten. Rated for swearing/mild violence.


It's 1978. England sits at his desk, hunched over, scribbling furiously on the pad of paper in front of him. His hair hangs in his eyes, and he is almost constantly brushing the hair out of his eyes, which are narrowed in thought.

The radio murmurs quietly from the side of his desk, just loud enough to fill the quiet room, but not overpower of impede thought. After a lull in the sound, it starts up again.

At the familiar sounds, Iggy (as he requested to be called at the time, Arthur sounding too formal; like he had 'a stick up his arse') drops his pen, leaning back in his chair. This is one of his favorite songs; "God Save the Queen."

As Johnny Rotten's voice began to flow out of the speakers, rough and rasping, England sweeps a hand through his long, tangled green hair, bits of his cheap black nail-polish flaking off as he does so. His head bobs with the music, and he mumbles along, kicking his feet up on the desk. The paperwork he has been working on his crumpled beneath his boots, but he doesn't care; he's more interested in sucking smoke from the cigarette he's placed between his lips.

"_Don't be told what you want.  
Don't be told what you need.  
There's no future, no future,  
No future for you."_

The nation exhales slowly, smoke curling towards the roof to halo around the light of his office. He turns the volume up on the radio before reaching for the bottle of scotch beside it. Tossing his head back, he takes a swig, fag still hanging from his lip, a move he's perfected. The liquor burns the back of his throat, and he relishes the feeling, though it causes him to skew his eyes shut in pain.

"_God save the queen,  
We mean it man.  
We love our queen;  
God saves"_

England swells with a secret pride as the song continues. The Sex Pistols are his. Johnny and Sid, they're his. This song is his. It's for him. It may sound as if they are berating him, his country, but he knows this song is for him, a love ballad written with drums and guitar. It's a cheer, an anthem. He understands them, and that is as much a source of pride as the meaning.

A smile cracks Iggy's stoney face, his lips parting in a quiet chuckle. It isn't because he finds anything funny; it's because he is self-satisfied. His people are so wise. Revolutionary. They always have been. They understand, they _know_. They are so intelligent, so bloody brilliant. They know what the country needs to improve, and his government will know how to do it.

England truly believes this.

Kicking his legs from atop the desk, he stubs out his cigarette on the fine, dark, varnished wood itself, rather than an ashtray. With a second swig of scotch, he leans over his desk once again, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration. But he can't seem to wipe that smile from his face, even as he reads over the paperwork.

* * *

A year later, he meets Rotten and Vicious at a pub, after a small show. Of course, he is overwhelmed with excitement; these men are the idols of the age. They are the Darwin and the Shelley of their time.

When he introduces himself, they just sneer. He excitedly blathers on about their music, praising and hailing them. He tells them all about their own music, about how he understands. He understands what they mean, he _knows_, he hears them. He's going to fix these problems, they've made a different.

They take him out behind the bar, dragging him by the collar of his tight leather jacket. They beat him mercilessly; pounding his face, his entire body with their fists. The world swirls around him, and he can feel his skin cracking and breaking, but he still wonders if the blood on their knuckles is his or theirs.

One takes him by the hair, threatening to tear it out, while the other beats his fist against Iggy's face, giving him a broken nose, a split lip, black eyes. He swallows a tooth (years later Francis asks what happened to it, and Arthur bites his tongue until it bleeds). The men he's idolized, the men he believed in, the men he thought were the future, they force him to the ground. They kick him in the stomach with their hard, steel-toed boots, calling him names between short, gasping breaths.

Lastly, they spit on him.

His hair is matted and the colors of Christmas, red and green; his eyes are nearly swollen shut. Hot blood and sticky saliva drip down his face, and tears (of pain, of course) well in his eyes when he tries to haul himself from the cold alley concrete.

His body aches for days afterwards; sickly green and deadly purple bruises mark his skin, and his eyes don't heal for weeks. His nose has a permanent bump, and the cuts on his face get infected. As he heals, he cannot help but think; "_I was wrong._"

"_And there is no future  
In England's dreaming"_

* * *

**Lyrics are from the Sex Pistol's God Save the Queen.**

**I originally was gunna make it about Punk!England writing an ode to Fish and Chips, but it got out of hand. No real moral, except for that England has always been a Nation, and thus, a government stiff his whole life. He had good intentions, but...**

**I did very minimal research, so everything is probably wrong. But really, who cares? It's like, whatever. Hurr.**


End file.
